


"Things You Said" prompts

by sunflowerseedsandscience



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Cancer Arc, F/M, Fluff, MSR, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 17:51:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7324771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerseedsandscience/pseuds/sunflowerseedsandscience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“I’ll buy you a drink to drown your sorrows, and we can remind ourselves what a <em>real</em> Star Wars movie looks like.”</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. 33. Things you said in the back of the theatre.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll buy you a drink to drown your sorrows, and we can remind ourselves what a _real_ Star Wars movie looks like.”

The lights came up, and as the few other moviegoers filed out past them, Scully chanced a look to her left. Mulder sat rigidly in his chair, a tub of popcorn sitting on his lap where it had been all but forgotten barely ten minutes into the movie. Scully had hoped, upon noticing that Mulder was no longer fighting her for the popcorn, that it had been because he was too enraptured by what was transpiring on the screen, but the expression of abject horror on his face said otherwise.

For the past three months, Mulder’s desk had sported a homemade page-a-day calendar, each page featuring a different Star Wars quote and its corresponding character. The calendar had been a gift from the Gunmen, with whom Mulder had planned on seeing “Star Wars: The Phantom Menace” as soon as it opened tonight. For weeks, Mulder had been gleefully tearing pages off of the calendar, counting down the days, making predictions, and, when Scully failed to catch his enthusiasm (and shot down Frohike’s invitation to join them, sit by him, and share an extra-large popcorn), he’d begun taping each day’s offering to her computer before she arrived in the morning. For that reason alone, Scully had been looking forward to the movie’s premiere. Mulder had been particularly incorrigible regarding any page featuring Princess Leia in her infamous gold bikini.

Then, three days ago, a last-minute case in Nebraska had floated across their desks, and even though there was an outside chance it could mean forfeiting his movie ticket if the case ran long, Mulder had had them on a plane almost immediately. Initially it seemed like they’d be back in DC by Friday afternoon, no problem, and Mulder had been so overexcited on Thursday night that Scully had had a more difficult time than usual kicking him out of her hotel room so she could sleep.

But then, early Friday morning, disaster had struck: the case had taken a sudden and unexpected turn, and by the time all was resolved, their 2:00 PM flight had come and gone. Mulder had gone back to his motel room to pack looking so dejected that Scully had taken pity on him and, after some research, had knocked on his door with the news that the small town’s single-screen theater was showing “Phantom Menace” at 8:00. Would Mulder like to take her to the movies?

The sheer delight in his answering smile was what had sustained her over the past two interminable hours… that, and the score had been pretty good, she had to admit. Beyond that the film had not, in her opinion, had any other redeeming qualities.

Next to her, Mulder finally dragged his eyes away from the screen to look at Scully, looking so completely brokenhearted that she nearly leaned over the armrest to hug him. “Mulder…” she said bracingly.

“Scully… what was that?” Mulder burst out, nearly knocking over the popcorn as his arm flailed out to point at the screen, where the closing credits continued to roll.

“Mulder, I’m sorry… I know you must be disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” Mulder said. “Midochlorians? That annoying little kid? Jar Jar fucking BINKS?!” He shook his head in disgust. “Scully, ‘disappointed’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.” Gently, she took his arm.

“Come on, let’s go,” she said, and he stood, following her out of the theater, grumbling all the way through the lobby, divesting himself of his mostly-uneaten popcorn at the front doors. They exited into the warm May air, and Mulder reached into his pocket to turn his cell phone back on.

“The guys’ll be calling me any minute now, I guarantee it,” he said. “Wouldn’t be shocked if they’re already making their way to Hollywood. If we turn on the news tomorrow and hear George Lucas was involved in a mysterious accident in his home, we’ll know who to blame.”

“Something tells me you and the Gunmen aren’t the only severely disappointed fans out there, Mulder,” said Scully. They walked down the town’s main street, past small businesses shuttered for the night, back towards their motel a few blocks away.

“Fans have been looking forward to tonight for years,” Mulder groused. “Parents have been passing the original films on to their children, cherishing the idea of their kids having the same experience they did when they first sat in a theater to watch ‘The Empire Strikes back’… and instead… they get this.”

“All this build-up,” Scully mused. “I know you never dreamed the movie would be this bad… but… in all honesty, could it ever have lived up to the hype? Could anything ever live up to your expectations after waiting for it that long?” Mulder stopped, looking down at her with a little half smile that set her heart racing.

“I’m sure _some_ things could,” he said, holding her gaze, making her blush. As she scrambled for something, anything, to say, Mulder’s attention was suddenly caught by something in the window behind her. He jerked his chin towards it, and she turned to look. In the bar they were passing, every television was tuned to “The Empire Strikes Back.” She turned back to him, grinning, and took his arm.

“Come on, Partner,” she said, steering him into the bar. “I’ll buy you a drink to drown your sorrows, and we can remind ourselves what a _real_ Star Wars movie looks like.”

 

On Monday morning, when Scully arrived in the office, Mulder’s calendar, with its last few pages neglected while they’d been out of town, was gone from his desk. Mulder was kicked back in his chair, munching sunflower seeds and flipping through his notes on the Nebraska case. Scully set down her briefcase and saw, much to her annoyance, that one last calendar page was taped to her computer.

“Mulder,” she sighed, “aren’t we done with this now?”

“Last one, Scully, I promise,” he said… and was he blushing? Scully reached out to tear the final calendar page from her computer… and caught her breath. The scene on the little square of paper was from the end of “The Empire Strikes Back,” Princess Leia bidding a tearful farewell to Han Solo before he was frozen in carbonite. The famous dialogue exchange was printed along the top. 

_“I love you.”  
“I know.”_


	2. 39. Things you said in the backyard at night.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They discuss the deaths of strangers casually, with glib detachment, even joking from time to time, but they do not ever discuss the cancer that is killing her.

With his ears deadened by the inane chatter of strangers all around him, Mulder almost misses the quiet _snick_ of Maggie Scully’s back door closing. He’s pretty sure there’s only one person it can be, and a quick glance around the room, at all the distant relations and family friends he’s never met- or heard of, even- confirms it for him: Scully’s fiery hair is notably absent. Looking over at Mrs. Scully, he sees her daughter’s exit has not been wholly unnoticed, and with a quick jerk of her chin, Maggie gives Mulder permission to go after her. Which he does. Gladly. He’s a curiosity to these people, Dana’s crazy partner who believes in flying saucers. More a museum exhibit than a real person.

Scully’s an exhibit, too, in her way. Poor Maggie’s daughter who’s dying of cancer.

No, not dying. Don’t say that. Don’t even think it.

Outside, his breath clouds the air in the February chill. The yard is completely dark; Scully didn’t turn on the porch light before her escape. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust enough to make her out, sitting on the porch steps, her back firmly to the warmth and light inside the house. Mulder slowly crosses the porch and sinks down next to her, his side brushing hers, just barely checking the urge to put his arm around her shoulder. She doesn’t want that, not now- he can see it in her face.

Never mind that he wants it. He _needs_ it.

“My mother’s mad, isn’t she?” Scully says finally. “I’m not behaving like the model daughter tonight.”

“I think she’s just worried, Scully,” he says. _I am, too_ , he adds silently, stealing a glance at her. Her face is pale in the moonlight, her blue eyes staring blankly out over the empty backyard.

“Let her worry, then,” says Scully, uncharacteristically harsh. “This was her idea. I told her I didn't want it.” She sighs, wraps her arms around her legs, rests her chin on her knees. “A birthday party. What could possibly have possessed her to throw me a birthday party?”

“You don’t think she just wanted to celebrate her daughter?” Scully huffs derisively.

“I might believe that, except the last birthday party my mother threw me, I was twelve. Mulder, I had to come straight here from Pendrell’s funeral.” Her voice catches slightly. “This isn’t about me; this isn’t _for_ me. It’s for _her_.” He can see tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, and the urge to hold her intensifies. He tamps it down again. “I tried to talk her out of this.”

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I tried, too.” Now she does look at him, finally, and she rewards him with a shaky smile.

“You’re a good friend, Mulder,” she says, leaning into him slightly, and now he senses that it’s okay for him to put his arm around her, and he does. She leans into his embrace, and he buries his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. She’s stiff for a moment, but he doesn’t let go (if she would permit it, he would never let go, not ever), and after a moment, she relaxes into his embrace, even returns it, sliding her small hands up his back and tucking her head against his neck. “It’s just so… so macabre,” she says. “I haven’t seen most of those people since I was in medical school. She’s never done this for any of the four of us, not since we were kids… and the only reason she’s doing now is because she wants all these people, these people I never see and never think about, to say _goodbye_ to me.” 

Mulder catches his breath. One of the two cardinal rules of their partnership these days is that they do not, they absolutely do _not_ talk about what is happening to her. They discuss the deaths of strangers casually, with glib detachment, even joking from time to time, but they do not ever discuss the cancer that is killing her. He drives her to and from chemotherapy, he helps her to her apartment afterwards, he turns a deaf ear when he hears her vomiting through the connecting doors of their motel rooms (though he is always sure to make sure there’s a glass of ice water on the nightstand for when she’s through), he pretends not to notice when she dashes from the basement office mid-sentence to run to the restroom… but she has made it abundantly clear that she will only accept his help if they do not discuss what it is he is helping her with.

“Well, the joke’s on your mom, then,” he says, trying to keep his voice light. “She’s about sixty years too early for that.” She laughs weakly. At the sudden puff of her warm breath on the skin of his neck, he tries and fails to suppress a gasp. She goes very still for the space of a heartbeat… and then, wonder of wonders, she nuzzles closer into his neck. Their arms tighten around one another.

And there it is: the second cardinal rule of their partnership. Unspoken, but there, nonetheless. She will not allow this relationship to progress, not under threat of a deadline. She does not want to feel like he’s doing this because it’s his last chance and he’s scared he’ll regret it. If this happens (when, he tells himself when he’s trying to feel optimistic, because they both know the potential is there), she wants to be sure it’s because _he_ wants it. She has told him some of this in halting half-sentences and hints; the rest, he has read in her eyes.

But now, here she is, pressing her lips to his neck, making him feel almost unbearable warm all over, in spite of the winter air all around them. “Scully,” he says softly, his voice hoarse, and she draws back to look at him, the tears gone from her eyes. She lays one hand alongside his face- it’s so cold, he’s kicking himself for letting her sit out here this long- and he can’t help it, he has to kiss her, and as he leans in he realizes that _she is leaning in too_ -

The back door is thrown open, and Maggie Scully’s voice calls out into the darkness, where she blessedly can’t see what she just interrupted. “Dana, the Kerrigans are leaving now. Won’t you come say goodnight?” Scully pulls back from him. The cold she leaves behind burns.

“Be there in a minute, Mom,” she calls, her voice strained. She stands, taking his hand and pulling him up with her. “We should go back,” she says. “We stay out here much longer and some of these people are going to start complaining about how rude I am.”

“Why don’t I tell your mom you have a headache?” Mulder suggests. “It’s been a long week, you were at a funeral today… she wouldn’t be surprised. Then we can get out of here.” Scully smiles again and squeezes his hand.

“You really are a good friend, Mulder,” she says. “Give me ten minutes in there. When you see me rubbing my temples, that’s the signal to spring me from whatever conversation I’m stuck in, and we’ll go home.”

“Deal,” he says, and she grins at him. Not a half-smile, not a smirk, not a brave smile through tears, but a real, live Scully grin, the first he’s seen in weeks. He commits it to memory, this moment- because even though she is deathly sick, she is fighting for her life, and her chances are worlds away from what he’d like them to be… right now, at this moment, she is here, she is smiling at him, she is holding his hand, and she is so, so alive.


	3. 34. Things you said in your sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was afraid, sure, but fear wasn’t the first emotion I felt.
> 
> The first? Curiosity.

I’m sitting at Mulder’s desk, typing on his computer, barely a third of the way through the report, when the first murmurings begin. Mulder’s sacked out on his couch in the same position as when he first threw himself down onto it an hour ago, one leg dangling down onto the floor and one arm thrown up over his face. He passed out immediately after we arrived back at his apartment, the adrenaline that had carried him through our visit to Modell’s hospital bed ebbing away the moment we walked in the door.

Honestly, I’m impressed he managed to sleep soundly for this long. I expected half an hour, tops, of tossing and turning, before he’d be up and hovering over me, channeling all his misplaced guilt into nervous energy, nitpicking my report as I write it, too jumpy to sit still long enough to write it himself. But it was too good to last, apparently, because now he’s starting to twitch, starting to shift around and mumble in his sleep.

“Scully.” The first coherent word out of his mouth is so clear that I turn to respond, thinking he’s woken up, but he’s still asleep, curled on his side now. I remove my reading glasses and watch him, apprehensive, hoping against hope that he settles again. “Scully, go. _Go_ , Scully.” I catch sight of his right hand, curled near his face, and realize his fingers are clenched into a fist… except for his index finger, which protrudes slightly.

Like he’s clutching his gun. Finger on the trigger.

His whole body is trembling now, shaking uncontrollably, and I give up hope that he’ll settle back down and keep sleeping. I abandon my unfinished report and carefully lower myself to the couch by Mulder’s hip. I gently take his hand- the left one, not the one clutching an imaginary gun- and squeeze it.

“Mulder,” I say, my voice soft. “Mulder, wake up.” He starts violently, his eyes flying open. He sits up so fast our heads nearly collide, and he jerks himself backwards across the couch, away from me, nearly falling onto the floor in the process. His eyes are wild, unfocused, and for a moment, he can’t see me in front of him. His right hand is still clenched, and now I do reach out and take it in my own, massaging his tense fingers until they begin to relax. He lets out a great, shuddering breath, and seems to crumble. I reach out my arms, and he collapses into them, tremors still running through him. “It’s all right,” I say soothingly, rubbing his shoulders. “You were dreaming. He’s not here.”

For awhile, neither of us says anything. Mulder stays leaning against me but makes no move to reciprocate my embrace, his arms dangling limply at his sides. I keep on massaging his shoulders, feeling the tension leave them, little by little, though it never goes away completely. I worry it never will.

“I fought him so hard, Scully,” he finally says. “But if you hadn’t pulled that fire alarm….” He shudders violently, finally putting his arms around me. 

“You would have kept fighting, Mulder,” I say confidently. “I was more worried for you than I was for myself.” I leave the rest unsaid- how quickly Modell was able to make Mulder turn his weapon on himself, how little fight I saw in his eyes as he pulled the trigger, compared to the battle I could see raging in his head when he aimed the gun at me. It terrified me, how… how _natural_ the position of his hand seemed, the way his head tilted ever so slightly to make the angle easier. I was going to be seeing that sight in my nightmares for a long time.

Only slightly less terrifying was my own reaction, when he turned the gun in my direction. I was afraid, sure, but fear wasn’t the first emotion I felt.

The first? Curiosity.

I’ll admit it, I wondered: how long Mulder would have been able to resist Modell before pulling the trigger on me? He couldn’t make him do it right away, which seemed a victory in and of itself. And obviously, I wasn't curious enough to wait and find out for sure if he could keep on fighting the voice in his head- the moment I saw the fire alarm, I was on it, no hesitation at all. But still... the question lingered.

Mulder has finally stopped shaking and leans against me, almost completely relaxed. "Why don't you try and get some more sleep?" I suggest. He draws back and looks at me.

"Will you stay a little longer while I do?" he asks, a little sheepishly. I smile.

"Of course," I say. "I'm going to keep working on our report. I'll order us a pizza in a little while, and I'll wake you up when it gets here, okay?" He nods. I squeeze his hand- the right one- one more time. "It's all right, Mulder. It's over. He can't hurt us any more."

But as Mulder settles himself back on the couch, and I return to his desk, I know, deep down, that I've lied.

Robert Patrick Modell is going to keep haunting us both for a long, long time.


	4. 50. Things you said when we were 70.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has made up his mind. Made it up weeks ago, probably, running over worst-case scenarios between doctor's visits and tests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what's wrong with me. I may not have been hugged enough as a child. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.

When she thinks about it, it seems almost inevitable that cancer should eventually make a reappearance in their lives. It's almost as though she expected that, one day, she would sit in an office like this, across from a doctor who would impart this news wearing this exact expression (a mixture of sympathy and trepidation, overlaid with an aura of "I've done this ten times already today"- do they learn this look during their oncology residency?). Cancer rearing its ugly head again is hardly unanticipated.

What she failed to anticipate, however, was that this time, it would strike Mulder.

Normally, during doctor's visits, Scully is the one who gathers all of the initial information from the doctor, asking complicated technical questions, breaking down the responses to explain everything to Mulder. But this time, her brain hiccups at the word "cancer," begins to shut down at the word "pancreatic," and ceases to function all together at the words "stage four." She sways slightly in her seat, holding the base of the chair to anchor herself to the world, an ill-defined buzzing filling her ears and a fog creeping in at the edge of her vision. She dimly hears the doctor outlining the options for chemotherapy, for radiation, for palliative care, but it's Mulder's voice that finally snaps her back into the present.

"No. No, I don't think so." The doctor frowns.

"Which part, Mr. Mulder?"

"All of it," he responds calmly. "I'm not interested in treatment."

"Mulder," says Scully, her voice a strained croak, "you can't be serious." He turns to look at her, his face kind, but already stubbornly set. He has made up his mind. Made it up weeks ago, probably, running over worst-case scenarios between doctor's visits and tests.

"Scully, I'm seventy-eight years old," he says gently. "Be honest- did you ever think I'd live past fifty?" He smiles at her, but she cannot find it in herself to return the smile, not while he is tearing her heart apart. "But I did, and I got to spend most of that time with you. I'd call that a win, wouldn't you?"

"But we could have longer, Mulder," Scully protests. "With treatment-"

"How much longer could chemotherapy give me?" Mulder asks the doctor. "Two years? Three?" The doctor clears his throat.

"Three years would be optimistic," he concedes. "In my opinion, a realistic estimate would be a year with treatment, three to six months without." Scully feels a sob threatening to rip its way out of her throat, and she stifles it.

"And on chemo, I'd be sick the whole time, from beginning to end," says Mulder. "Scully, would you make that decision for yourself?"

"We're not talking about me, Mulder," she protests weakly.

"But you've been through that. You've been through the chemo and the radiation, you've been through the vomiting and the exhaustion. Would you really go through that again if you knew it wasn't going to get you much time?" 

"Why don't the two of you take a few days to discuss this?" suggests the doctor. "Talk it over with each other. You do have a valid point, Mr. Mulder. You wouldn't be the only one of my patients, at your age, to make this kind of call." He stands, ready to usher them out. "There's no right or wrong answer here; only what's right for you. Take some time and decide what that is."

\--------

Scully is silent in the passenger seat of their car on the way home. Mulder steals glances at her as he drives, at her frozen expression, waiting for the inevitable moment when the dam will burst. The fading sunlight fills the car, settling in the tresses of Scully's hair, filling it with a glow that Mulder admires each time his eyes wander from the road. Of the many iterations of Scully's hair over the years, this is by far his favorite: equal parts silver, red, and gold, falling in soft waves down below her shoulders. She has long since stopped trying to fight her hair's natural curl, ditching the severe haircuts right around the time they both ditched their FBI badges and finally retired.

Scully keeps it together for the entire drive, up until Mulder parks in front of the house and shuts off the engine. They don't get out; he senses, somehow, that she's going to speak her mind here, in the car. They always seem to handle serious conversations better in the car, as though the years of passing the long miles with talking have made it so that they have difficulty communicating anywhere else. He thinks about how, given the choice, he would simply drive with her forever, endless distances with her by his side, never more than a foot away, always within his grasp. She had told him once that she wanted to stop the car, to get out, to have a normal life, and they had, after a fashion, and it had mostly been wonderful, but now he'd like to turn the car back on and drive away with her again. He ponders this impulse as she finally begins to speak.

"Mulder," she says, her tone suggesting she's taken the entire drive to marshall her thoughts, to prepare her argument, "the time the chemotherapy could buy you could lead to other opportunities. New cancer treatments are being discovered all the time. There are clinical trials you could get into... I still have friends at the hospital, they could make it happen-"

"Scully," he says gently, "I've made up my mind. I've had a long life, longer than I had any right to expect. I don't want to spend what little time I have left bent over a toilet."

"What about when it was me in your shoes, Mulder? When they told me I was going to die, that no surgery could save me, that treatments could only prolong the inevitable? Did you let me give up? Did you let me, even for one second, give up and stop fighting?"

"It's not the same and you know it," he says. "Your disease was engineered. It was given to you. It was a fabricated disease, with a fabricated cure, and all we had to do was find it. Not to mention, Scully, you were _young._ " He reaches for her hand, but she yanks it out of his grasp, angry tears coursing down her face. "I'm an old man, Scully. Nobody gave me this disease, nobody planned this for me, nobody made me sick in an attempt to destroy evidence. This was probably always going to happen. It's normal life, Scully- as close to normal life as you and I ever get." He reaches out, takes her by the chin, turns her gently to look at him. "What would you want me to do if the tables were turned, Scully? If you were the one getting this diagnosis and this was the choice you made?"

She doesn't have to think very hard about this. She could lie, and claim that she would never make the same choice, that she would fight with all of the time she had left, but even after forty years, the memory of the horror of aggressive chemo is still sharp in her mind. She remembers how terrible it was to go through that in her youth... and he is nearly eighty. He's taken care of himself, but still, he's right: he's an old man. Can she ask him to put himself through that, when the end result will be the same, and only delayed by a few months, if he's lucky?

She thinks back to the day she told him she was dying. If circumstances had been different, if she had never been abducted and had instead gotten terminal cancer as part of the natural course of her life, and had made the decision to forego treatments and simply make the most of the time she had left, what would he have done?

She doesn't need to think about this part at all, really. He would do exactly what he's always done: if he disagreed, he would try to change her mind, but in the end, it would be her choice to make. They are partners, they are equals, and he respects her ability to make her own choices. He always has. And she owes the same to him.

He can read her answer in the way she hangs her head, knows the conclusions she's drawn without her having to say a word. He reaches for her, and this time, she comes to him readily, her body shaking with the sobs she can no longer keep inside. Strangely, he doesn't feel like crying, himself; he meant every word he said, about having had a long life, about being grateful for every day spent by her side. This woman, this love, this space of time are more than he ever dared dream he'd be allowed. Really, he'd thought he'd reached the pinnacle of happiness decades ago on the day she first told him she loved him, and everything since then has been gravy.

"What will you do?" asks Scully tearfully, from where she is curled into his chest. "If you're not going to be treated? We can't just sit at home and wait and pretend everything's normal." He agrees.

"I was thinking, Scully," he says, and she looks up at him. "What would you say to going for a drive?" She frowns.

"A drive? Where to?"

"Nowhere." He grins. "Everywhere. Let's just pick a direction and go. See how much of the country we can cover in three to six months. If it gets bad, we'll come home to ride the rest of it out... but until then, let's just drive." The corner of her mouth lifts: she understands. She always understands him.

"You want to get back in the car." He nods, still grinning. She considers, and he knows what's going through her mind: the long miles, over terrain both bland and beautiful, talking and laughing and arguing and sometimes just being still, but always, always together, just the two of them. And finally, she smiles, and kisses him.

"All right, Mulder," she says. "Let's go for a drive."


	5. 13. Things you said at the kitchen table.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know those books are completely inaccurate, right?" he said. "Completely off the mark when it comes to established practices in witchcraft."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Severus'StarFiles" asked for some fluff to atone for my sins in the last chapter, so I took my inspiration from their username and made it Harry Potter-themed, because why not?

i. April 2007

"Hey, Scully?"

"Mmmm?" She looked up from her laptop and the piles of notes spread out before her on the kitchen table. Mulder was standing at the window, peering through the drapes into the sunny backyard.

"What's Will reading?" She leaned back in her chair and peered past him, through the window, to the distant form of their son reclining in the hammock, a pastel-colored book propped on his thin chest.

"Harry Potter, I think," said Scully, returning to her journal article. Across the kitchen, Mulder turned to look at her, eyebrows raised. "What?"

"Isn't that a little advanced for a six-year-old? Like, shouldn't we be reading it with him?"

"I tried," said Scully. "He said I was going too slowly. Said he was never going to get through all of the books before the last one comes out at the pace I was setting." Mulder chuckled.

"Sounds about right. Your kid through and through." She glared at him over the top of her reading glasses. "What? I mean his advanced reading level, not his impatience." She looked skeptical. "Honest. You gonna tell me you weren't reading at a fourth grade level when you were in kindergarten?"

"Fifth," she said grudgingly, returning to her work. Mulder smirked, then returned his gaze to his son, relaxed and absorbed in his book.

"You know those books are completely inaccurate, right?" he said. "Completely off the mark when it comes to established practices in witchcraft." She sighed, rolling her eyes.

"Mulder, are we really going to go through this again? Do you remember what happened when we tried to watch E.T.?" She shook her head. "It's a children's book series, Mulder. They're fiction. They're cute. Let it go."

"Where'd he get them, anyway?"

"From my mom," said Scully. "She bought them for Matthew, but Bill won't let them in the house. Says they promote witchcraft." Mulder snorted.

"Of course he did." He watched his son for another moment, then glanced back at Scully thoughtfully. "He seems pretty absorbed."

"He's barely looked up all day," Scully agreed.

"Seems like it's unlikely he'll look up anytime soon," he said, crossing to stand behind her. "Don't you think?" The corner of Scully's mouth turned up slightly.

"I'd have to agree with that assessment," she replied. He bent, brushing his lips against the side of her neck, feeling her inhale sharply. "Did you have something in mind? Something more pressing than this article that's due in a week?"

"I think I do, yes," he murmured into her hair. "Can I see you upstairs for a brief consult, Dr. Scully?" He headed for the stairs, and she got up to follow.

"Brief? Mulder, he's on book three of six. He's gonna be in that hammock the rest of the day. You make this brief, and that same hammock is exactly where _you're_ gonna be sleeping tonight."

 

ii. June 2007

Scully trudged down the stairs, bleary-eyed, the pre-dawn light leaking in through the curtains, and stopped short when she saw Mulder sitting at the kitchen table, a dark green book open in front of him.

"Mulder?" He grunted, not looking up. "Have you been sitting here all night?" He grunted again. "Mulder, I have to be at work in an hour. William's going to be up soon. Are you going to be able to look up long enough to make him breakfast?"

"I can scramble eggs while I read," he said.

"The book's not going anywhere. You can take a break." Mulder shook his head.

"I want to talk about it with Will when he wakes up. Last night he was disappointed I hadn't finished yet." Scully shook her head, smiling in spite of herself.

"Fine," she said, pouring herself some coffee, taking the eggs from the fridge to make her own breakfast. "Just don't forget the to-do list I left, okay? You said you'd get to it two books ago." Mulder grunted, lost in the book again, and Scully rolled her eyes.

 

iii. July 21, 2007, 6:30 AM

 _I've gone way too soft_ , Scully thought to herself, rolling over and looking at her alarm clock, which had rudely awakened her after barely four hours of sleep. _When I told them they'd have to wait until after breakfast for their books like a normal person, I should have stuck by my guns._

She had been up until nearly two in the morning, picking up Mulder and William (clad in matching Ravenclaw robes) at the bookstore in town, where they had waited for hours to buy two copies of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" the moment it was released at midnight.

 _Copies._ Plural. They had bought two copies of the same book, to be brought home to the same household, so that neither of them would have to wait even a day to read it.

Scully rolled out of bed, slid into her slippers, tied on her bathrobe, and trudged downstairs to drink as much coffee as she could hold before she was due in at the hospital. At the kitchen doorway, she paused, leaning up against the wall and smiling at the scene before her in spite of herself.

Mulder and William were both asleep at the kitchen table, their heads pillowed on their bright orange books. Mulder's was closed- clearly he'd finished and had gone to sleep right there, rather than coming upstairs- and William's was open, about two-thirds of the way through. Scully took down Mulder's green alien coffee mug from the cabinet, filled it to the brim with coffee, and placed it next to his hand. She rubbed his shoulder gently.

"Mulder," she said softly, stroking his shoulder. "Wake up." He stirred, blinked once, settled again. "Come on, Mulder, I need you to carry Will up to bed." Mulder opened his eyes again, sat up, and stretched with a groan.

"What time is it?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Quarter to seven," she said. "I need to leave soon. What time did you fall asleep?"

"Sometime around four," Mulder said, reaching gratefully for his coffee and taking a long gulp. "Just didn't have the energy to drag myself up when I finished."

"So your theory was right, huh?" she said, settling at the table with her own mug of coffee. "About Snape being a good guy all along." Mulder smirked.

"Scully, you should know by now not to doubt my theories. How often have I-" He froze, mid-sentence, staring at her. "Hang on, Scully, how did you-"

"The Gunmen," she said. "E-mailed you a pirated copy two weeks ago, but I intercepted it. I thought they'd try to send you one... and I knew you'd be tempted. But I also knew you'd want to save the experience to share with Will."

"But _you_ read it?"

"It was either that, or stay up all night reading a _third_ copy- not really an option the night before surgery- or eat dinner in a different room tonight to keep from being spoiled while you and Will discuss every single chapter in detail." Mulder pushed his chair back and carefully lifted William from his seat.

"But reading a pirated copy, Scully?"

"Relax, Mulder, it's not like I _asked_ the Gunmen to send it. And it's not like I paid them for it. I deleted it as soon as I was done." Mulder grinned.

"Admit it, Scully," he said. "You were just as anxious to read it as the rest of us 'crazy' people waiting in bookstores at midnight." She opened her mouth to challenge him, then abruptly changed her mind.

"Yes, I suppose I was," she conceded. Mulder shook his head, still grinning, and leaned down to give her a kiss before carrying William up to bed.

"You do keep me guessing," he said. Scully smiled.

"Always."


	6. 22. Things you said after it was over.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She could feel him, she realized, hovering, right outside her room. Had he been there all this time?

As the evening wore on, Father McCue was the first to leave Scully's hospital room, followed shortly by Skinner. To Scully's horror, Maggie was settling in with an air that suggested she planned to stay all night, but with some gentle prompting and a few pointed looks, Bill was prodded into convincing her that her daughter needed peace and quiet, and would be just fine on her own overnight. Bill left to retrieve the car from the parking garage, and Maggie sat down to wait on the edge of Scully's bed.

"Now, remember what the doctor said, Dana," she said, "about not rushing right back to work." Scully just barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes.

"I know, Mom," she said. "Skinner's said he won't let me come back until my doctor writes a note clearing me, and the doctor's said he won't clear me until I've gained back some weight and he's sure I'm ready."

"I heard them both," said Maggie. "But I want to make sure you don't go back until _you're_ feeling ready, no matter what your doctor thinks."

"I think what you mean is you don't want me going back until _you're_ ready, Mom," said Scully knowingly.

"Oh, Dana," said Maggie sadly. "I'm never ready." Guilt pierced Scully's heart, and she looked down, willing herself not to get angry with her mother for laying this on her now, on what should be the happiest of nights. _She just almost lost you for the second time_ , she reminded herself sternly. _She's been a widow for less than five years, she's still not over losing Melissa, and now she's had to try and get ready to say goodbye to another daughter._

"Bill's probably brought the car around by now," said Scully, keeping her voice even. "You should both go rest. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" Her mother, thankfully, recognized the dismissal and didn't argue. She kissed Scully's cheek, hugged her one more time, and left.

Alone at last, Scully let out a monumental sigh of relief and sank back against the pillows, closing her eyes, ready to savor the solitude she'd been craving for hours. But the moment her shoulders hit the bed, she froze, opening her eyes again, frowning.

Something wasn't right. She wasn't alone, not really.

She could feel him, she realized, waiting, right outside her room. Had he been there all this time? She sat back up.

"Mulder," she said, just loudly enough that she thought he could hear her, if he really was there. For a moment, nothing happened, and she doubted. Had she grown so accustomed to his presence that she imagined he was near her even when he wasn't? She tried again, a tiny bit louder. "Mulder, can you come in here, please?" A beat, and then the squeak and thump of a chair in the hallway being pushed against the wall. And then there he was, peeking around the doorway, looking sheepish and unsure of himself.

"Hey," he said softly. "I didn't want to bother you, in case you were going to sleep, but... uh...." He shuffled further into the room, hands in his pockets. "I didn't want to leave, in case... you know, in case you needed anything." Her face broke into a warm smile, and she patted the side of her bed.

"Come sit with me," she said, scooting to one side to make room for him. He returned her smile readily, crossing the room and sinking down onto her bed, taking her hand without even thinking about it. "Thank God everyone finally left," she said. "I'm worried my mother's not going to leave my side except by force for the next few weeks."

"I don't blame her," said Mulder. "I'm not sure _I_ want to leave your side." She pretended not to notice his blush.

"Yeah, but you don't hover," she said. "You're well-versed in the fine art of caregiving without smothering."

"So you're not going to kick me out tonight?" he asked hopefully.

"Wouldn't dream of it," she said. "As far as I'm concerned, this is your victory as much as it's mine, and I want to share it with you."

"You believe it's the chip that made the difference, then?" he asked. She nodded slowly.

"I do," she said. "Logically, it's the answer that makes the most sense. I had one chip removed; I developed cancer. I replaced the chip; the cancer went into remission." She shrugged. "It's a clear relationship. My mother and Bill would like to believe the whole thing is a miracle caused solely by divine intervention, a result of my allowing Father McCue to administer the Last Rites... but I don't buy that, not really."

"Why not?"

"Well... because I'd been praying the whole time, Mulder, since the moment I thought something might be wrong with me. I don't really believe that God would ignore my prayers just because I hadn't yet invited a member of the clergy to help me voice them."

"So... you don't think praying worked at all?" She gave him a look.

"I didn't say that," she retorted. "No... what I really think is that you finding the chip, getting it to me, _that_ was the answer to my prayers. I know the idea of being an instrument of a god you don't believe in is going to grate on you, Mulder, but..." She squeezed his hand. "That's what I believe happened. You were the answer to my prayers."

"Scully, I'll be the instrument of any deity you want, if it means you're still alive and here with me." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and she leaned into his touch, closing her eyes. He rested his hand against her cheek. "I should let you sleep," he said softly. She nodded.

"Stay with me?" she asked. He smiled.

"I wasn't planning on leaving," he said. "My ass and that chair out there were well on their way to becoming one. The chairs in here look like they can complete the job just fine." She laughed.

"No, I meant, stay _here_ ," she said, moving all the way to the far side of her bed and patting the opening she'd left. He raised his eyebrows.

"You sure?" She nodded. "All right, then." He kicked off his shoes and swung his legs up onto the bed, settled his back against the raised mattress, and opened his arms. She backed into them, reveling in the all-over warmth she felt as they closed around her. As keyed up as she'd been all evening, she was suddenly content and drowsy. Her eyes drifted closed as she felt her breathing fall into sync with his. She felt the rumble in his chest as he spoke. "How long will they make you stay here?"

"I should be able to go home in a couple of days," she said. "I don't require any more treatments. They just want to keep me under observation a little longer... repeat the scans, make sure it's the real thing." She felt him stiffen slightly, his arms tightening around her. "I'm sure it is, Mulder, don't worry. It was just such a sudden shock to the doctors... they want to be totally certain before they set me free." She sighed. "I can't wait to be home. I can't wait to get back to work, to get back to normal." He snorted.

"Normal? Really, Scully?" She laughed.

"Well, normal for us, at any rate." He chuckled. "Will you drive me back to my place, when the doctors turn me loose?"

"Sure, Scully," he said. "I'll even spring for a pizza, if you want." She grinned, snuggling deeper into his embrace.

"That sounds perfect," she said. "It's a date."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued in the next chapter.


	7. 51. Things you said as we danced in our socks.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But now, Bill was leaving, Maggie was occupied for the evening, and Scully was finally free from the hospital, Mulder at her side, headed home to the comfort of her quiet, familiar apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a short little drabble, taking place two days after the previous chapter, and posing the question: what, exactly, made that particular Three Dog Night song pop into Scully's head when Mulder asked her to sing in "Detour"?

It took some doing, but Scully managed to surreptitiously obtain the flight information for Bill's return trip to California. A little more plotting, a few conversations with her doctor and with Mulder, and she managed to schedule her release from the hospital for the same evening. Confronted with the choice between making her son take a cab to the airport and letting someone else drive her daughter to her apartment, Maggie Scully was forced to allow Mulder to be the one to take Scully home and get her settled in.

Sweet, sweet relief.

Scully had been practically climbing the walls of her hospital room for nearly forty-eight hours, and her mother's constant, smothering presence was doing absolutely nothing to soothe her. She felt better when Mulder was there, except for when Bill was there as well, making snide comments and doing his best to bait her partner. But Mulder was so blissfully happy to have her restored to health that he hardly seemed to notice Bill's barbs- which, of course, only made her brother angrier.

But now, Bill was leaving, Maggie was occupied for the evening, and Scully was finally free from the hospital, Mulder at her side, headed home to the comfort of her quiet, familiar apartment. Scully said very little on the drive home, reveling in the absence of hospital noises, in the familiar smell of the inside of Mulder's car and of Mulder himself, sitting in the driver's seat, seemingly unable to stop himself from grinning at her every few minutes. She didn't think she'd ever seen him in such a good mood.

"I didn't forget your pizza," he said as they parked in front of her building. "I called and placed the order while you were being discharged- it should be here any moment."

"You're the best, Mulder," said Scully gratefully. "I can't believe how hungry I am. I'd almost forgotten how it felt to _want_ to eat."

Mulder carried her bags up to her door where, to Scully's delight, the pizza delivery man was standing, clearly annoyed, having just about decided to stop knocking and leave. Mulder apologized, paid him, tipped him well, and carried the pizza inside, Scully trailing in his wake, inhaling deeply the tantalizing scent of cheese and mushrooms. They wasted no time, setting the bags on the floor and the pizza on the coffee table, kicking off their shoes, and digging in. Mulder realized after two slices each that they'd forgotten drinks, and ran to the kitchen to pour glasses of water. He returned to find Scully looking longingly at the remaining pizza.

"I want to keep eating so badly," she moaned, "but I just can't. My body's not used to actually getting full meals anymore." He handed her the glass of water and rubbed her shoulder consolingly.

"You'll get there, Scully," he said. "In the meantime, I don't know that I've ever enjoyed watching someone eat two slices of pizza as much as I enjoyed watching you tonight. It's so good to see you eating again." She smiled up at him. "Here, let me pack the leftovers up for you." He took the pizza box and their plates to the kitchen as she drank the water he'd brought her. After a moment, she heard him switch on her kitchen radio, and smirked, as he changed the station from classical to rock. The sink came on, and he started washing their dishes, singing along with the music. She grinned, shaking her head, and got up. She went into the kitchen and stood by the table, watching him. A new song began as Mulder set the plates in the drying rack, belting out the words at a volume that was sure to have the neighbors complaining.

_Jeremiah was a bullfrog,_  
_Was a good friend of mine,_  
_Never understood a single word he said,_  
_But I helped him drink his wine._

Throwing down the dishtowel, Mulder suddenly turned, holding out his hand to Scully, yanking her close. One hand stayed holding hers, and the other went around her waist, squeezing tightly.

_Joy to the world, all the boys and girls,_  
_Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea,_  
_Joy to you and me._

He danced her enthusiastically around the kitchen, both of them sliding a little in their socks, as Mulder continued singing, grinning mischievously at the next verse.

_If I was the king of the world_  
_Tell you what I'd do,_  
_I'd throw away the cars and the bars and the wars,_  
_And make sweet love to you._

She felt a blush of nuclear proportions creeping up towards her face, but she couldn't stop smiling at him. He twirled her around until she was dizzy, until she could barely see straight, singing about joy, and she thought to herself: I have never known joy, not truly, until this moment. I have never before known this pure depth of happiness, this feeling of perfect contentment.

Joy to the world, indeed.


	8. 6. Things you said under the stars and in the grass.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know she knows some things- she knows, for example, that a gravestone bearing her name exists. I hope she knows I had no part in its being ordered.

As soon as I kill the engine, I realize I've somehow managed to park almost exactly in the same spot Duane Barry's car occupied three months ago. I feel supremely creeped out, think about moving and parking somewhere else, but decide against it for authenticity's sake. She said she wanted to see exactly where it happened. So here we are.

She's fast asleep in the passenger's seat, has been since around the time we passed DC city limits. She's still exhausted, still tires easily, and I tried to convince her that this little excursion could wait, but she wouldn't hear of it. I probably used up my monthly "Scully takes my advice" allotment when I talked her into holding off coming back to work for just one more week, but that was an important victory, so by contrast, a little car trip isn't such a big deal. Especially not when she can sleep through most of it.

I don't wake her up right away, choosing instead to just watch her for a little bit. It's dark out, but the moon is bright, so I can make out her features reasonably well. And even if there were no moon, it wouldn't matter: Dana Scully's face is burned into my memory in perfect detail. Especially in this exact situation: slumped to one side in a car seat in the dark, just like in so many stakeouts and late-night drives.

_"Mulder, I wouldn't put myself on the line for anyone but you."_

Her words to me, our last stakeout together. For a few seconds I had been terrified I might cry, I was so moved. When was the last time someone had made that kind of declaration to me? Had anyone, ever? I didn't think so. I'd brushed it off with a joke, I know, but that's what I do in situations like that, and even though it had only been a year she already knew me well enough to know that, and she didn't take offense. And as much as I knew she meant it, back then, neither of us fully comprehended the scope of it, how it could potentially end.

I know it now. And so does she.

She had the opportunity to take it back, there in the hospital, when Skinner visited after she'd woken up. He asked what she wanted to do- whether she wanted to stay at Quantico, go back into the field in a new division, or return to the X-Files. To me. And my girl didn't even hesitate: she looked right at me and said she'd been away from the basement too long already.

I will never deserve her. Not in any capacity. But I'm going to do my best to try.

A glance at the clock on the dash shows me it's nearly nine at night. If I want to have her home and in her bed by midnight, we need to get going. I reach over and gently touch her shoulder.

"Scully," I say softly, "wake up. We're here." She blinks slowly awake, smiling sleepily at me. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I think, _This is the way she would look at you every morning if-_ But this thought leads dangerous places, and I silence it immediately. "You ready for this?"

"Yeah," she says, sitting up and stretching her neck and shoulders to relieve the kinks. "Let's go." We step out of the car into the cool night air, and she walks around the hood to stand beside me, looking around.

"This is where I found his car," I tell her. "I found your cross in the trunk." She touches the gold at her throat, slides her other hand into mine. I lead her along the road, stopping in the grassy clearing where I found Duane Barry, shrieking his victory and my destruction to the heavens. Scully makes as if to let go of my hand, but I tighten my grasp.

"Is this where he was?" she asks me, looking around, out at the view. I nod, not trusting myself to speak. "I have no memory of any of it. I thought maybe, if I came back here, I'd remember, at least a little, but...." She shakes her head. "Nothing." The part of me that wants answers is disappointed. The part of me that would prefer Scully never to suffer through another nightmare again is glad. "Strange, isn't it?" she asks, gesturing out at the spectacular view. "That it happened in such a beautiful, peaceful place." She sits down on the cool grass, pulling me by the hand to sit by her. The silence is comfortable in its familiarity.

"I came here a few times," I say, finally, when I feel I can trust my voice to remain steady. "When you were gone."

"Looking for me?" I shake my head.

"No, not really. I had no reason to think you'd be returned to the same place... I just...." Okay, I was wrong, my voice isn't keeping steady at all. She's been back two weeks, but it still hasn't fully sunken in yet. I still wake to a millisecond of dread every morning before I remember that the nightmare, for now, is over.

"What was it like?" she asks gently. "While I was gone?" I don't want to answer, but she looks at me, waiting patiently. I know she knows some things- she knows, for example, that a gravestone bearing her name exists. I hope she knows I had no part in its being ordered. Soon enough, she'll come across the file in the basement that details my trip to California, but I hope she'll never know the full story of what I did there, how I tried to escape my grief over her absence.

"It was hell," I say finally, truthfully. "I thought it was bad when they split us up... I had no idea how bad it could be, Scully. It was Samantha all over again, only a hundred times worse, because-" I stop myself. I can't say it. I know I should, I know this whole experience has shown me how I can't take it for granted that she'll always be by my side, but I can't. She still might change her mind, decide she wants out, and I can't stand in her way if she does. I can't create more ties between us than there already are, not until she's had more time to be sure she still wants to be here.

"Because what, Mulder?" she prompts. I choose a different truth instead.

"Because this time it really was all my fault," I finish. She sighs.

"No, it's not, Mulder," she says. "The only people at fault are Duane Barry and the men he answered to. You did everything you possibly could to find me, and when I was dumped in the hospital to die, you were the one fighting to find out how to keep me alive. My mom, Melissa, Skinner- they all told me how you refused to give up on me." She moves closer, puts her hand on my cheek. "I'm never going to forget that, Mulder. Not ever." And there it is, another opening to tell her, just like the opening she gave me as we sat in the car waiting for Tooms to show his face... but no, I can't. Not yet. And so I fall back on the same defense I fell back on that night.

"Nice words, Scully, but how do you remember something you've already forgotten?" I quip, grinning. She gives me a look, arching her eyebrow in a way that has me terrified that she knows exactly what I'm not saying. But she doesn't push it. She shakes her head, smiles at me, and leans against me. I put my arm around her shoulder, and together, we watch the stars.


	9. 37. Things you said with the TV on mute.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clearly Mulder didn't take the news of her deteriorating condition as well as she'd thought.

With the dreaded conversation finally over, and Mulder back on his side of the connecting door, television droning softly, Scully showers, brushes her teeth, dresses in the dark maroon pajamas Mulder randomly bought her a few weeks ago. 

A late birthday gift, he claimed, when he left the box on her coffee table while she was out, three sets of sleepwear to make up for presenting her with nothing more than a keychain on the actual day, but when she opened the box and saw the pajamas in maroon, brown, and blood red, soft but sturdy material, easily washable, she knew he'd noticed the departure of her usual silk and satin. Not much can be hidden, with so much time spent on the road together, and Mulder never misses anything.

_He took the news reasonably well,_ Scully thinks to herself as she peels back the scratchy comforter and settles herself between crisp, cool sheets. She had been worried, so she'd waited until the case was over, theorizing that this way, he wouldn't be thinking about it during the investigation, but at the same time, he'd have the report to distract him from dwelling on what she had to tell him. But as it turned out, she needn't have been concerned. There had been no breakdown, no tears, no beating himself up. He'd been upset, of course, but that was to be expected. All he had required from her in order to keep his composure had been her promise, given readily, that she wasn't giving up, that this latest news from her doctor wasn't going to break her resolve.

Metastasis. 

She'd known, on a purely theoretical level, that it was coming, but she finds now that she was not prepared for the reality of it. If she allows herself to dwell on it, to think about it more than just in passing, the fear is paralyzing. Thus far, she's mostly been able to keep herself from thinking about it, but it's only been a few days.

Of course, the time left could potentially be measured in days as well, but this thought is horrifying, and she pushes it away.

Scully switches off the lamp on the nightstand and lies flat on her back in the dark, listening to the soft sounds of the television in Mulder's room. The connecting door is open a few inches- lately he insists on leaving it open, in case she needs something during the night- and the blue light flickers across the carpet in her room. She closes her eyes, concentrating on the sounds, trying to see if she can guess what he's watching, trying anything at all to stop her mind from going where it's most inclined to go.

Listening closely, she can't make out any voices, only a strange, rhythmic tapping, a few decibels shy of being called thumping, and... is that heavy breathing? _Panting?_ Anger flares in her gut. Couldn't he have at least had the courtesy to shut the door? Did he really think she'd want to listen to this? She gets out of bed to shut the door, maybe to chew him out for being inconsiderate, but when she gets to the open door, she stops cold. The sounds are coming, not from the muted television, but from him- and he's not doing what she thought he was. Not at all.

Mulder is lying in the middle of the bed, curled on his side, facing the door. His knees are pulled up to his chest and his fists are balled up in front of his face. He is bathed in sweat and trembling violently enough to shake the entire bed, the headboard and wall tapping out the rhythm she'd mistaken for something else entirely. His breathing is fast and shallow, like he's overexerted himself. Scully switches immediately to doctor mode and rushes to his side.

"Mulder?" She attempts to move his hands from his face, but he's frozen in position. She checks his pulse in his wrist- fast, thready, jumpy- and massages his hands, trying to loosen his fists. She recognizes the symptoms easily enough- the posturing, the erratic breathing, the shaking. 

Clearly Mulder didn't take the news of her deteriorating condition as well as she'd thought.

"Mulder, listen to me," says Scully, continuing to massage his hands, getting them to open slightly. "You're having a panic attack. You need to slow your breathing, okay?" His eyes flutter open, full of fear, and focus on hers.

"Scully?" His voice is hoarse. "Can't catch my breath. Chest hurts."

"I know it does," she says soothingly. "It'll go away soon. You just need to relax." His fingers spasm in hers.

"My hands feel numb. Tingly."

"It's because you're hyperventilating, Mulder," she tells him. "You have to get your breathing under control. Can you try and take a few deep breaths?" He closes his eyes and tries to inhale deeply, but coughs and chokes instead, and is immediately panting again.

"Can't," he gasps. "Been trying... for ages... can't calm down." She squeezes his hands, working her fingers in between his, trying to massage feeling back into his palms. His eyes open again, pleading with her to help. She lies down beside him, taking him in her arms, and rubs soothing circles on his shoulders with one hand, gently rubs the back of his scalp with the other. 

"Mulder," she says gently, "I want you to focus on me, okay? Focus on my breathing." She takes deep, slow breaths, keeping eye contact with him. "Try and breathe with me. In..." She inhales, expanding her chest to press against his. "And out." She exhales, reopening the chasm between them, missing the contact immediately. She scoots closer, so that they're touching again. "In..." Long, slow press against him. "And out." Still touching, softly now. She senses his focus being diverted, sees the concentration in his eyes as he tries to keep rhythm with her. She continues the pattern, brings one hand back around to take his hand, which is looser now, and place it on her chest, directly over her heart. "Feel my heartbeat, Mulder," she whispers. "I'm alive. I'm still here." He's breathing with her more easily now, still hiccuping slightly, but no longer out of control. "I promised I wouldn't give up, Mulder," she says, "and I won't. I'm going to keep right on fighting. I swear it." He's fully in sync with her now, inhaling and exhaling in perfect harmony, and little by little, he manages to loosen his entire body. His arms, back under his control now, wrap around her, all but crushing her to his chest.

"Sorry, Scully," he says, embarrassed now. "You didn't need to have to deal with-"

"Mulder, stop," she says, squeezing him back. "I laid something pretty shocking on you. It's a perfectly understandable reaction." She sighs. "I came close to responding the same way when my doctor told me." She pulls back slightly to look at him. "Do you think you can get some sleep now?" He nods.

"Will you-"

"I'll stay," she promises. She hopes her relief doesn't show in her voice, that he doesn't know that his presence, his arms around her, are as much a comfort to her as hers are to him.

When she wakes, hours later, the motel room still dark and silent around them, her pulse climbing rapidly and her own breath beginning to come in short gasps, she presses her chest to his again, and mimics the deep cadence of his respiration- in, out, in, out- until she calms and drifts off to sleep again.


	10. Things You Said Sitting Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She keeps hold of him throughout the series of injections the dentist places in his gums, trying not to laugh as he gasps and whimpers his way through the whole thing. He’s been shot, beaten up, chased by all manner of criminals and mutants, and nearly died on more than one occasion, but a couple of tiny pinpricks in his mouth are apparently too much for him to handle.

They’re in the rental car, halfway between Boise and the town of Jerome, Idaho, when it happens. Mulder, who is driving, throwing back one handful of sunflower seeds after another, suddenly jerks his head sharply back against the headrest. His hand flies to his cheek.

_“OW!”_

Scully, who has been perusing the case file in the passenger’s seat, startles at the sound, sending papers cascading off of her lap and onto the floor of the car.  
“Mulder, are you all right?” He’s still clasping his cheek. He slows the car, pulling it to the shoulder of the (thankfully empty) highway, and puts it in park. He brings his hand forward and cups it under his mouth and, with a look of total panic, spits something jagged and white into his palm.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” he moans, closing his eyes in horror. Scully reaches out and takes his hand, pulling it towards her to inspect its contents.

“Well, that can’t be the first tooth you’ve broken on those things,” she says, shaking her head sympathetically. She slides closer in the front seat and turns his head towards her. “Open up,” she commands, pulling a penlight from her coat pocket.

“Scully, you’re a doctor, not a dentist,” says Mulder, and Scully rolls her eyes.

“Mulder, just open your mouth,” she sighs. “Let me have a look.” Still looking apprehensive, Mulder obliges, and Scully shines the flashlight into his mouth. “Yup, there it is,” she says after a moment. “One of your molars, bottom left. That’s a pretty big chunk that fell off... looks like the pulp’s exposed.” She sits back and turns off the penlight. “We need to turn around.”

“Why?” demands Mulder.

“We passed a decent-sized town ten miles ago,” says Scully. “There’s a good chance we can find a dentist to take care of this for you. If not, we’ll go back to Boise and find one there.” Now Mulder truly looks panicked.

“Scully, no,” he says. “We need to get to Jerome. We’ve got a case. This can wait until we get back to DC.”

“Mulder, the nerve is exposed,” Scully says. “If it doesn’t hurt yet, it’s going to start hurting soon, and trust me, it’s going to be bad. I’ll call the police in Jerome and let them know something’s come up, but we have to get this taken care of, or you’re going to be in far too much pain to be any use to anyone.” Mulder takes a deep breath, ready to continue arguing, but the intake of air hits the exposed pulp of his split tooth, and he gasps and clutches at his cheek again. “You see? Now switch places with me. I’m driving.”

\-------------

Scully backtracks to the town of Mountain Home, where, thankfully, she quickly locates a dentist. The waiting room is blessedly empty, and within ten minutes, Mulder has been escorted to a room in the back, and Scully settles onto a worn couch with the case file, prepared to make the most of the next hour. She’s barely started reading, however, when a dental hygienist comes out from behind the reception desk to speak with her.  
“Ms. Scully?” the woman asks. Scully looks up.

“Yes?” she asks. “Is my partner all right?”

“He’s asked me to come and get you,” the hygienist says. “He asked if you’d come back and sit with him.” Scully frowns, confused, but she packs up the file and follows the hygienist to a room in the back.

Mulder is sitting in the dental chair in the middle of the treatment room, looking more frightened than Scully can remember him being in a very long time. As soon as the hygienist leaves, closing the door behind her, he looks up at Scully sheepishly.

“Mulder, what’s going on?” asks Scully. Mulder’s cheeks are flaming with embarrassment.

“Scully... uh... I never told you this, because it’s never come up, but....” He takes a deep breath. “I’m kind of a dentaphobe.” Scully tries hard not to smile at his revelation.

“You’re scared of dentists?” Mulder nods miserably. 

“I hate the drills,” he says. “And the needles. And the scraping... and all the stuff in my mouth....” He shudders. “I panic. Every time.”

“Mulder,” Scully says, gently but firmly, “you need to get that tooth fixed. It won’t take long at all for the pain to be unbearable.”

“I know,” he says miserably. He looks up at her hesitantly. “Will you stay with me? While they’re working on me?” Now Scully does allow herself to smile.

“Sure,” she says. She crosses to stand by the chair, across from the tray of equipment, where she’ll be out of the way. At that moment, the door to the treatment room opens, and the dentist walks in.

“So, Mr. Mulder, I understand we’ve got a broken tooth that needs patching up?” 

“Uh, yeah, that’s right,” says Mulder. He’s gripping the armrests of the chair so tightly that his knuckles are white. Scully reaches down and takes his hand, giving it a squeeze. The dentist catches sight of this and grins.

“A little nervous?” he asks. “That’s all right. We’ll get you hooked up to the nitrous, and pretty soon, you won’t have a care in the world.”

“Laughing gas?” Mulder glances up at Scully. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” he says. “I can’t show up in Jerome high.”

“I already called the police chief in Jerome and told him not to expect us until tomorrow morning,” says Scully. “This way, as soon as we’re done here, we can get you to a motel and you can sleep it off.”

Fifteen minutes later, Scully sincerely doubts Mulder remembers why they’re in Idaho. She’s not entirely sure he remembers his own name, to be honest. Her partner has been reduced to an incoherent, giggling mess. It takes the poor, exasperated hygienist several tries to get an x-ray of Mulder’s broken tooth, because every time she has the film in position, he tries to talk, and it falls out. And once it’s finally in place for good, he moves his head just as the x-ray is taken, and it comes out too blurry to use. In the end, Scully has to put on a lead bib and stand right next to him, holding his head by the chin and reminding him to keep his mouth shut.  
When the x-rays are ready, and it’s been determined how much drilling will be needed before the tooth is filled and given a temporary crown, the dentist comes in carrying a tray with a syringe on it. Mulder groans.  
“The needles, Scully,” he says plaintively. “I hate the needles. Can’t see where they’re going. Makes it hurt more.” 

“I know, Mulder, but that’s nothing compared to how it’ll feel if he doesn’t numb the area before he starts drilling.” Mulder shudders.

“Don’t talk about the drill,” he whines. Scully reaches for his hand again.

“I’ll be right here,” she promises. “It’ll be over before you know it.” He heaves a theatrical sigh and gives her hand a squeeze. She keeps hold of him throughout the series of injections the dentist places in his gums, trying not to laugh as he gasps and whimpers his way through the whole thing. He’s been shot, beaten up, chased by all manner of criminals and mutants, and nearly died on more than one occasion, but a couple of tiny pinpricks in his mouth are apparently too much for him to handle.

“Mulder, stop chewing on your lip,” Scully admonishes a few minutes later.

“Ith numb, Thcully,” Mulder observes. “Can’t feel it.”

“You’ll feel it when the Novocain wears off,” she says. “Now leave it alone, unless you want to spend the rest of the trip with a cheek full of lacerations.” Mulder sags into his chair, but does as she says. His eyes wander around the room, coming to rest eventually squarely on Scully’s chest. He gives a happy sigh and a dopey grin (complete with a thin line of spittle running from the numbed side of his mouth). Scully considers admonishing him- it’s not the first time she’s caught him staring at her chest, but it’s the first time he’s been open about it, and she knows he’d be embarrassed if he weren’t high- but it’s the first time he’s sat completely still since he’s been brought back here, and she doesn’t want to start him fidgeting again when the dentist is about to get to work.

And besides, when was the last time she had a man literally drooling over her breasts?

“You’ve got great tith, Thcully,” Mulder observes dreamily. The dentist gives a snort of laughter, and Mulder looks up at him. “Doethn’t she? They’re the betht.” Scully mouths a silent apology to the dentist, but he waves her off.

“I’ve heard much worse things from patients sitting in this chair,” he assures her. “And if he’s relaxed enough to talk like that, he’s relaxed enough for me to work on him.”

The actual process of fixing Mulder’s tooth is quick and uneventful. It’s true that Mulder spends most of it with his eyes fixed on Scully’s breasts, but it seems to keep him calm, so she lets it go. When the dentist leaves with the mold of the socket to have the temporary crown made, Mulder smiles up at Scully.  
“That wathn’t tho bad,” he says.

“No, it wasn’t,” she agrees. “Lots of fuss for nothing.” He nods. “You’ll need to make an appointment with your regular dentist when we get home, though. This is just a temporary crown and you’ll need to have a permanent one made.”

“I don’t have a regular dentitht at home,” says Mulder, looking sheepish again. Scully frowns.

“When was the last time you had your teeth cleaned, then?” she asks. The way Mulder refuses to meet her eyes is answer enough. She heaves a sigh. “I’ll put you in touch with my dentist, then,” she says. “She’s on our health plan, and she’s really good. You’ll like her.” Her grin turns mischievous. “She’s got a lot to look at. Maybe that’s all you need to get through over your dentaphobia: a couple of distractions.” But Mulder shakes his head.

“Nah,” he says. “I like _your_ dithtractionth betht.” He looks up at her pleadingly. “Will you come with me? To my appointment at home?” She hesitates. The prospect of another afternoon with an uninhibited Mulder on nitrous seems like a mixed bag... but then again, he’s not likely to need nitrous just to have the permanent crown placed, which means he’ll probably be a nervous wreck. She can’t refuse.

“Sure, Mulder,” she says, and his face relaxes once again into dreamy contentment, as Scully adds “dental escort” to the already-long list of roles she plays in Mulder’s life.


End file.
